Over at the Riskies, talking about Mother’s Day.

Just sayin’.

Kwana gave me props on her blog, and I have to assemble my brain cells and post something in reply, but I am so worn out the thought of it makes me yawn.

Meanwhile, enjoy a fine painting by Vermeer. One of my most treasured memories is when my uncle came to visit New York several years ago, and we went to the Met, where they had some Vermeers. He is a decorative artist, which means he can do all that fancy interior painting (and he advised us very well when we were deciding on paint colors: “You can’t go wrong with Atrium,” he said. Wise words, David, wise words). He cried when he saw the Vermeers; he’d never seen one in person, he grew up in Jamaica, was educated in London, and has lived in California for a gazillion years.

Here are the rules:
Link the person who tagged you.
Mention the rules in your blog.
Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours.
Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them.
Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.
So here goes, a few quirky thinks about me :

[the thing is, I think I’ve pretty much revealed my quirks here already. So when I repeat myself, just remember that I am OPEN and HONEST. And quirky.]

1. I cannot start reading a book without a bookmark in hand.
2. I like to alphabetize things. I just alphabetized the spices in my new spice rack.
3. I count things all the time: Stairs I’ve climbed, seconds I’ve paused, spoons in the drawer. It is making me crazy that we’ve lost one of our spoons somewhere, so we only have seven all told.
4. It drives me INSANE that a lot of buildings don’t have a 13th floor, and I will not watch the numbers go from “12″ to “14″ when I am riding the elevator.
5. I drink a liter bottle of seltzer every day.
6. I don’t like meeting people I admire, because I know they probably won’t like me, I might not like them, or it will just be disappointing. Which is why I don’t ever want to meet Clive, or Richard, or Sean. I do like meeting writers I admire, however, which is how I got to be friends with Sabrina and Loretta.

I am tagging:

Goedi (knowing full well he will hate me for this), the Super Librarian, Stacy , Angela , Nicole and You!

Thank you, Celtics.

I love Kevin Garnett–he epitomizes what a star basketball player should be: unselfish, incredibly talented, determined. Plus he took my dad’s favorite team from the morass of failure to having the best win record in the NBA.

I watched Game 7 of the Celtics vs. the Hawks yesterday crying most of the time; remembering how Dad and I would watch Celtics games on the TV with the sound down and records on, eating Weaver’s Fried Chicken and Planters’ Peanuts (yes, we were both rather large at the time). Dad would have a Pabst Blue Ribbon and I’d have diet Coke. He’d tell me about the game, we’d cheer and talk about music, and life, and who got the last chicken wing.

I am so happy the Celtics won. I am so sad Dad isn’t around to see his team triumph, in the way Dad liked it–with teamwork. Here’s a quote from Garnett:

But I get enjoyment out of just being here and having the opportunity to come in every night and play. I have never been a personal stat guy. I have accomplished a couple of things, but I don’t think I am above anybody. I overlook all those things and focus on team accomplishments.

I am going to cheer the Celtics all the way to the Finals. I wish you were here to watch with me, Dad.

A friend of ours, a very brave friend, just had his book published:

All Things Must Fight to Live by Bryan Mealer:

A foreign correspondent’s gripping account of his experiences in Congo, told through the long scope of the country’s dark and brutal history.
After covering a brutal war that claimed four million lives, journalist Bryan Mealer takes readers on a harrowing two-thousand-mile journey through Congo, where gun-toting militia still rape and kill with impunity. Amid burned-out battlefields, the dark corners of the forests, and the high savanna, where thousands have been massacred and quickly forgotten, Mealer searches for signs that Africa’s most troubled nation will soon rise from ruin.
At once illuminating and startling, All Things Must Fight to Live is a searing portrait of an emerging country devastated by a decade of war and horror and now facing almost impossible odds at recovery, as well as an unflinching look at the darkness and greed that exists in the hearts of men. It is nonfiction at its finest—powerful, moving, necessary.

Review
“Mealer spent three years in this shattered land, and his book is a perceptive, empathetic, stomach-twisting presentation of the human condition during chaos….Mealer’s book is a quiet paean to the courage he has witnessed, and its final salute to ‘the many proud people of Congo’ is as much eulogy as affirmation.”—Publishers Weekly

“Gutsy, richly descriptive recollections effectively conjure grisly events in a troubled nation.”—Kirkus Reviews

“Bryan Mealer has put his life on the line to bring us a story of terror and courage from the heart of Congo. It’s already an accomplishment just to go to such a place; to return with such a powerful and important story is rare indeed. Both as a journalist and as a reader, my hat’s off to Mealer.”—Sebastian Junger, author of The Perfect Storm

“Gorgeous, heartbreaking, and redemptive. Bryan Mealer has given us a story of a people and a land nearer to our hearts than we know. An immensely honest job of reporting, wonderfully told by a writer who feels as much as he sees.”—Robert Kurson, author of Shadow Divers

“One has to be young and perhaps a touch mad to voluntarily travel, as Bryan Mealer has, by foot, boat, barge, bicycle, rickety airplane, and a train that goes off the rails, through one of the most violent places on earth. But a sane and cautious person would not have been able to bring back the vivid and tragic stories he has, from what is by far the world’s bloodiest—and most underreported—zone of conflict.”—Adam Hochschild, author of King Leopold’s Ghost

“Five years ago, Bryan Mealer left a comfortable desk job in New York for one of journalism’s worst bets: reporting from the harrowing—and virtually forgotten—war zone of the Congo. We are all very fortunate he chose to take that bet. In All Things Must Fight to Live, Mealer endeavors to make sense of the bewildering maze of conflicts that, until recently, tore apart the former Zaire while the outside world did shockingly little to prevent it. Even more important, he has succeeded in putting a human face to the struggles in this troubled corner of Africa, and leaves us with a portrait that is both deeply haunting and surprisingly hopeful. A profound achievement.”—Scott Anderson, author of Moonlight Hotel

Memes soon, but meanwhile, I’m talking about books at the Riskies . It is honestly not the most exciting post but, you know, everyone has their off days. Or off weeks. Months, even. So, yeah.

Okay, so one unconvinced (some would say misguided) friend calls him “Ratface,” but ohmigod is Richard Armitage hotness defined.

BBC America On Demand has a six-minute feature about RA’s character on Robin Hood called “Good Guy or Bad Guy,” and at the end of the segment, it shows him shirtless. Putting armor on. Wearing BLACK LEATHER PANTS. That don’t look stupid.

Swallow.

Anyway, so I watched Robin Hood, the actual show, and about 15 minutes into it, it hit me: It’s a lot like Power Rangers. The violence is PG, the acting (with very few exceptions) is wooden, the production values are low, the dialogue and events are totally predictable, it’s all about Good vs. Evil, except where Guy of Gisborne (RA’s character) is concerned. That no-one knows that the Night Watchman, who has clearly obvious breasts, is Marion is ludicrous.

A long time ago, Amanda McCabe told me she’d heard that Armitage had joined the cast of MI-5, another BBC show. Thank goodness. THAT show is well-done, plus it already stars Matthew Macfadyen and Rupert Penry-Jones. Hopefully I won’t have to suffer through too many more episodes of RH. You’ll notice, of course, that I haven’t eschewed the show entirely; I have my core beliefs, and one of them is that I should be able to view hotness in black leather and black eyeliner even if the context is lame.

So, honestly, for anyone who’s moved, how long does it take until everything is done? Should we be feeling like big losers because there are still boxes in the dining room? And many, many things in the basement? It’s been a month, and in that time, we’ve been working on things (and working, and working, and–), but it still isn’t where we think it oughta be. Are we deluded? Or losers? Either way, it’s not good.

Anyway. More pictures.

So, Megan, you unearthed the camera, and the first thing you take pictures of is . . . YOUR BOOKS?!?

Yes. Deal with it.

The Canterbury cup is a Wedgwood my Dad had since before I was born, I think. He had a gazillion pens in it, so I am carrying on the tradition (plus it has a broken handle).

My heart just skipped a beat:

And, in related news, last week the Accommodating Spouse and I were out for beers (many of ‘em) with his friends, one of whom stops by here every so often. Apparently, the friend is quite concerned what would happen if I met Clive Owen, and Clive wanted to, you know, me.
Barring the ludicrousosity of that, the A.S. said how could he stand in my way? And he hoped I would be as understanding if Scarlett or Rachel or Isabella made the same offer.

I would if he would, but only if I get to go first.